


a binding chain of living love and mortal pain

by Mertiya



Series: The Hand of the Mighty [4]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Amputation, Canon-Typical Violence, Fingon will not let anything stop him from getting to Maedhros, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Parental Abuse, Self-Hatred, Torture, Very Dark Humor feat. Maedhros, the hand and finger trauma squad that is me and JRR strikes again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25850689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: As the Sun rises for the first time, the Elves who were left behind to traverse the Helcaraxë are reunited with Galadriel and her little group.  Fingon is still grieving their betrayal at Losgar.  Locked in the fortress where a successful Fëanor has hidden himself and the Silmarils away, a guilt-ridden Maedhros is listless and lonely--and he's about to make a grave misstep.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: The Hand of the Mighty [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858411
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	a binding chain of living love and mortal pain

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Lay of Leithian.

There is a red blur along the horizon. At first, Findekáno cannot think what it might be. Part of him wonders if it is some strange aurora of Middle Earth. Then the cries begin, coming down the line, “The ships! The ships!” and his heart contracts. He squints his eyes, running forward, and the red blur steadies into crackling flames.

“Fëanáro has betrayed us!” Wails and cries are going up all along the ice, but Findekáno only stands frozen still, his hand outstretched. He cannot believe the sight before his eyes. That Fëanáro should leave them behind is bad enough—though he has been fey for days now, perhaps longer—but that Maitimo should leave them—that Maitimo should leave _Findekáno_ —is something that he cannot believe. No—that he cannot even begin to understand. It is an impossibility, like a frozen flame. Any moment, they will see the white sails of at least one ship returning.

Findekáno watches, but minutes slip into hours. The fires die. No one comes.

They have been abandoned, and he cannot even find it in him to cry.

**~**

**_Four years later._**

The Sun rose on Arda. In Valinor, the Valar smiled to look upon it; some cried openly with joy that the memory of the Trees should be thus preserved. In Angband, a Maia awoke from too-long slumber to find his Vala holding him and his friends waiting outside the door. A small bat, shrieking with excitement, flew all the way to Artanis’s bed-chamber, where she was quite incoherent for the rest of the day, and there was a great deal of awed whispering and some delighted cuddling. In Ancalima Osto, the Brightest Fortress, the Noldor also whispered among themselves, but their whispering was oddly fearful. Maitimo Russandol slipped outside to look upon it and found his heart warmed, but he did not stay long.

At the easternmost point of the Ered Wethrin, bathing his aching feet in the Eithel Sirion, Findekáno watched the Sun rise over the plains of Ard-galen. He had woken early in the morning, not quite realizing what the first rays of dawn were until he saw the golden light spilling across the greensward and he woke the rest of his weary family and friends with a shout of joy. “The light!” he cried. “The light of the Trees!”

Footsore and weary though the hosts of Nolofinwë and Findárato were, this light like none they had seen since the death of the Trees in Valinor restored their spirits greatly, and they began to sing a marching song as they broke camp and began their journey. With the hellish journey across the Helcaraxë behind them, with this new light shining like a benediction, perhaps they would find what they were seeking. Findekáno suspected that what he was seeking was not the same as what his kinsmen sought, but in the end it did not matter if all of them could find it. 

They rode down the mountainside in high spirits as the brilliant light of the Sun spilled across the land. It was a harsh land, but there were marks of strange beauty here and there all the same—thin and wiry flowers that climbed the mountain, clumps of brightly-colored mushrooms huddled in the shade of strangely-twisted rocks. And it was a paradise compared to the Helcaraxë, whose icy fingers Findekáno could even now feel on the back of his neck.

As they rode, the Sun passed over their heads and vanished, some hours later, beyond the mountains. Weary and wondering, they watched the stars appear, shining dimly in the pellucid light. Then, as they built their campfires and pitched their tents, the Moon followed the sun, bearing the silvery light of Telperion, and many of them wept. Findekáno had not cried in five long years, and he did not think he was going to be able to start now, but he did his duties and found the folk who needed food and delivered it. They slept soundly for the first time in a long time, the survivors of the Helcaraxë, all but Findekáno, who dreamed of red hair lit by firelight and woke in a cold, prickling sweat.

Halfway through the second day’s ride, as the tall cold mountains loomed ever closer, they saw a pretty forest and the silver sparkle of light on water. Gladhearted, they went towards it, and many dismounted to drink and play in a chuckling, gurgling stream. Findekáno saw Itarillë laughing and splashing at her father; it was the first time he could remember hearing her laugh. He remembered her tears and wailing sobs all too well, but now she was laughing. In his heart twisted the twin desires to forgive and to condemn, to forgive and to condemn, as they had twisted and twisted for long years now. Who was he to forgive? But who was he to condemn, either? He closed his eyes and felt the warmth of the Sun’s light on his face, and it stilled and quieted him.

He was pulled from his pleasant revelry by the sound of a hunting horn and gay laughter. The Noldor looked at one another and, as one, reached for their weapons. Findekáno did as well, not without a pinch of longing for the days when that would not have been their reaction.

From the trees burst a little pack of hunters. In the front, a gold-haired Elven woman upon a white horse, with a small dark woman tucked into the seat in front of her. Behind her, more fair forms riding three abreast, and loping easily beside them, a great black form that Findekáno thought for a moment was a hound before he saw the narrow red eyes and longer snout of a wolf—but this wolf seemed no threat to the riders.

The front rider pulled her horse to a sudden startled stop, and Findekáno heard Findárato’s voice make a sound—not words but not quite a gasp, a little noise that held sorrow and amazement and the beginnings of something that was not sorrow. And the scene seemed to rearrange before Findekáno’s eyes as he recognized the foremost rider, even as she said, softly, “Brother?” and Findárato found his words and cried “Artanis!”

~

The darkness of Ancalima Osto seemed darker than it ever had before, now that Maitimo had glimpsed—what had he glimpsed? The bright light rising in the east, golden and powerful, seemed to carry the light of Laurelin, such as he had not seen since the trees died. Since before the forging of the Oath. All of it seemed so far away now, so dreamlike. Here there was only the black rock and the white, brilliant light of the Silmarils, the calm static eternity of the Oath fulfilled. Maitimo had done his duty as the eldest son of Fëanáro. He had succeeded. So why did it feel as if he had failed?

He floated through the day in a dream-like haze, fulfilling all his duties without being entirely aware of them. Although he often found himself moving automatically these days, he seemed more disconnected than ever, his mind reaching beyond the walls of the fortress and out to bask in that golden light. Golden light made him think of golden thread, and he flinched and rested his forehead against the cool stone walls. Then he shook his head and continued.

He gave himself the rare indulgence of tucking himself up into an alcove for an hour or two near the end of the afternoon, where he pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook and wrote. It was a small book, mostly of poetry. He never flipped to the inside cover anymore, and most of the poems were unfinished, as he grew tired of them or lost the will to continue. Now he wrote with shaking fingers, leaving blots of ink all over the page,

_Gold arises in the sky_

_Cupped, reflecting in the meres_

_Gold on wingèd eagle lies_

_Beyond the walls._

_My fingers reach for golden thread_

He stopped, staring at what he had written, and slammed the notebook shut. It would be time for dinner soon.

Seated near the head of the table, at his father’s right hand, Maitimo carried on what should have been effortless conversation, thankfully with the significant support of Makalaurë on the other side. They were part of the way through dinner—a very silent dinner, somehow, full of whispers from the lower end of the hall—when Maitimo found himself running dry of reports and everyday conversational matter.

“Have you heard the news?” he asked Fëanáro, for surely it warranted a discussion, if nothing else.

A quicksilver glance from his father. “News?” his father echoed.

Eru, but he was exhausted. All he wanted was to get to bed. Still, dinner was not over. Maitimo put a smile on his face. “The light that shines upon Middle Earth.”

“I know of no light that shines upon all of Middle Earth,” Fëanáro returned.

Perhaps no one had told him of it. For some reason, Makalaurë was now shaking his head at Maitimo, but Maitimo could not see why. “The golden light that rose this morning,” Maitimo explained, “Golden as—” He bit his lip, just managing to keep back the words, _golden as the threads braided into Findekáno’s hair_ , and quickly substituted, “Golden as Artanis’s locks.”

Fëanáro set down the cup he had begun to drink out of with a surprisingly loud noise. The buzz of chatter throughout the dining hall had faded further. “I know of no such light,” he said again, and there was a glint in his eye that Maitimo did not like, one that he had seen before. The selfsame glint had shone in his eyes at Losgar—and later, when their enemy had been prostrated before him.

Frustration boiled inside Maitimo; he forced it back down. “The light is arisen over the land of Middle Earth, Father.”

“Do you suggest that there is any light worthy of my attention other than that of the Silmarils?” Fëanáro asked lightly, tracing the outline of his silver goblet with one finger.

“It is part of our world, is it not?” Maitimo asked in irritation. “I do not say you should spend your thoughts upon it, Father; I merely inform you of unusual events.”

“And what a choice of event to inform me of.” Fëanáro’s eyes glittered still, and he leaned forward. “Tell me, Maitimo, my eldest son, art thou faithful to me?”

Maitimo stared back at him, and then he laughed, short and sharp. “How can you ask such a thing?” he demanded, setting down his own goblet. His own voice sounded high, as high as it had never sounded since the early days of his youth in Valinor, and it cracked at the end.

“That is not an answer,” his father told him coolly. His finger still traced that circle around the rim of his glass, more rapidly than ever. “Of all thy brothers, thou alone stood aside at Losgar.”

A shudder ran down Maitimo’s spine, and he saw once more the flames rising towards the sky. “Of _all_ my brothers?” he demanded, his throat feeling raw. “Accounting I presume for only those who had the _opportunity_.”

Down the table, he heard the soft clink of metal on wood. Ambarussa had dropped his fork. The sound was loud in the sudden, hushed silence that had descended. Maitimo clenched his fists, bowing his head and gritting his teeth. “Yes, Father, I am faithful to you, as I have always been,” he said, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. For the first time, the thought continued, _but perhaps I should not have been._ He seemed to see golden light reflecting on golden ribbons braided into ebony hair. Was Findekáno dead? Had he died cursing Maitimo’s name?

“I do not believe you.”

Maitimo looked up, shocked as much at the sudden malice suffusing the words as the words themselves. “You do not— _Father_.”

Fëanáro stood, every inch a king, but the white light in his eyes was the light of madness. “My faithful guards,” he announced, and his voice rang in the silence. “Take away this traitor!”

~

He had always been the son of Fëanáro, first and foremost. Even before anyone else acknowledged that truth, Maitimo had known it to the depths of his soul. He tried to hold onto his truth even now, but it slipped between his fingers like specks of ash. He could not keep his voice entirely silent when he was whipped; he could hear pained gasps and grunts escaping from his lips, no matter how hard he tried. He did not try to fight in any other capacity.

Was it loyalty, he wondered, or was it despair, that he did not fight them now? Was he determined to do as his father bade him, even if his father bade him die, or was it this leaden cold seeping into his limbs that told him he had no choice? That told him he had never had any choice, unless it was to cast himself into the frozen waters of the Firth of Drengist at Losgar and there make an end. 

Tears gathered on his cheeks as the whip struck his back again and again. He felt flesh tear and liquid trickle down his back and pain, most of all. Pain lancing through his back; pain in his bound wrists; pain in his constricting heart. Would his father be satisfied with this punishment? If he were, would Maitimo return to him, crawling on bended knee, begging for forgiveness? He thought of Findekáno’s laughter and the sparkle of light on his black hair, thought of long, blissful nights tangled in Findekáno’s warmth. Then the heat of the flames on his face at Losgar, the moment he stepped forward to stay Fëanáro’s hand and halted, torn between loyalties.

_Oh, Findo, what have I done?_ The whip fell again, and Maitimo cried out, no longer able to stop himself. 

When they had finished with him, he was shaking so badly he could not stand unassisted. He could feel warm blood trickling down his back. They took him before Fëanáro, in whose eyes he could still see that soft, strange little glint. How long had it been there? Not _before_ Losgar, surely? It could not have been. He would have seen it. Would he not? 

He went to his knees because he could not help it, his arms left with just enough strength to brace himself and keep him from falling entirely onto his face.

“Have you repented of your hasty words?” Fëanáro asked, sounding for all the world like a concerned king.

Maitimo dug his fingernails into the stone floor. He wanted to hear his father’s voice praise him again. He wanted to be the eldest son again; however hard his road, at least he knew he did not walk it alone. “I have repented of many things,” he choked out at last.

“Indeed? Shall I ask what they are?”

Tears overflowed Maitimo’s eyes and trickled down his cheeks. “I repent my part in the burning of the ships at Losgar. I repent failing my youngest brother. I repent abandoning my best friend across the Grinding Ice to die. I repent never naming him my lover openly.” He wrapped his arms around himself in shock at the words spilling from his mouth and found that he was laughing as he cried.

“It gives me no pleasure to sentence you thusly, then, Maitimo,” Fëanáro said, and he sounded pained himself. “Take him out of Ancalima Osto and hang him from his wrist from the cliffs above.”

Maitimo looked up at him, his eyes widening. “I am your _son_ —you would sentence me to a slow death for telling you the _truth_?”

“You are no son of mine,” Fëanáro responded, and the words fell burning upon Maitimo’s ears.

~

Findekáno had never been at an evening meal filled with so much tension of so many different sorts. Once Artanis—for it was really Artanis—had fallen sobbing into Findárato’s arms, everything had turned into a babble and a blur as they both demanded to know how the other had come to be here. As _everyone_ did so—for the group behind Artanis included not a few familiar faces. And as all of this was going on, the small, dark woman hopped off the horse and stood looking stubborn, forlorn, and anxious, until Artanis reached out an arm and drew her in.

“Ingoldo, this is my love Thuringwethil. Thuri, this is my brother.”

“Oh!” the small woman had cried out excitedly and then promptly hidden her face in Artanis’s shoulder. “I am very glad to meet you,” she had mumbled.

With everyone’s eyes on this spectacle, only Findekáno had seen the wolf surging up and changing shape, into a fair-formed Maia in simple hunting garb, whose red-brown eyes seemed to gleam with reflecting flame. Findekáno had drawn his sword at Sauron, and it had taken Artanis’s _and Olórin’s_ intervention to keep him from attacking the Maia, who was laughing the entire time.

“You are not helping,” Olórin told him sternly.

The whole story had come out, then—that Morgoth and Sauron had laid down their arms and made a treaty with the Elves living in these woods at the borders of Angband (there was some confusion regarding which side of the borders they were on that Findekáno did not concern himself with). Some of the Elves here were of the Noldor—most of them a small group that had splintered off when Fëanáro cut off Sauron’s hand. Others were Avari, who had lived on these lands from time immemorial and who had joined them when it became clear that this forest was safe from Angband’s iron fist.

Artanis herself said she had traveled from Losgar alone but for one other companion, whom she had rescued from the burning ships. She had been talking with him long into the night, and they had lost track of time, but she had smelled smoke and the two of them had managed to slip away. She pulled the young man from within the hunting party, and there was a long pause—then Findárato himself cried out welcome and clapped his cousin upon the back, and the second Ambarussa fell into his arms. “Only call me Amrod,” he murmured shyly, “for these days I prefer that version of my name.” And he looked up the mountain slopes to the dark fortress Findekáno had presumed to be Angband.

It was not Angband. “We carved Angband from the rock,” Sauron told him amusedly during that very tense dinner, for the Maia seemed to take a distinct delight in teasing with a sharp edge, though Findekáno supposed that was far less deadly than it could have been. He kept his hand on his sword all the same. “It is hard to see from this distance, for it was originally intended to be a home, not a symbol.” His eyes went somber for an instant. “No matter what happened later or nearly happened. No, that is Ancalima Osto.” And he rubbed his right wrist with his left hand, apparently unconsciously.

“There is nothing bright about that fortress,” Findekáno objected. “It looks as if it were carved from obsidian.”

Again those eyes flashed sharp. “Nothing bright on the _outside_ ,” Sauron corrected him. “I hear the inside is ever so brilliant. The light of the Silmarils, you know—that is where Fëanáro lives, and the rest of the Noldor with him.”

Findekáno could not stop his heart from leaping, could not keep one hand from twisting in the ragged braid he still wore. The next moment, his heart plunged again, for the same old whisper came into his mind—forgive or condemn? And yet—he was so close. And he missed Maitimo so much, an ever-present ache that he could not shake off and suspected he never would be able to. “The Silmarils,” he whispered in echo, but what he _meant_ was so much more complicated than that.

Sauron drew in a harsh breath and leaned away from him all the same. “You have taken no Oath,” he said sharply, far more naked in his sharpness than he had been until this moment, and Findekáno suddenly realized that Sauron—Sauron was _afraid_. “Do not seek the Silmarils,” Sauron told him, harsh, the teasing light fled from his eyes.

“I do not,” Findekáno returned scornfully. “I have no use for such baubles.”

“Indeed?” The fear seemed to quiet a little, and the other sharpness returned. “Not even such baubles as you wear in your hair?”

There was a ringing sound as Findekáno half drew his sword. From the other side of the table at Artanis’s side, Thuringwethil’s head snapped up and she began to rise, a sudden darkness appearing in her eyes.

“ _Enough_!” Olórin from his seat beside Curumo rose as well, his staff flaring with white light. “Thuringwethil, sit down, your master is in no danger. Mairon, you would do well to keep your tongue in check among new guests. Findekáno, do not draw steel when you are a guest. You ought to know better.”

Feeling rather like a child who had just been scolded for eating messily, Findekáno sat. “Yes, _Eru_ ,” Sauron muttered, but he looked a little shamefaced as well. Thuringwethil sat down sulkily, and Findekáno saw Artanis stroking her hair, a little as if she were soothing the ruffled feathers of an unhappy bird. At least his cousin was fortunate in love, he supposed.

It was near the end of dinner that the second upset happened. The light of Telperion was filtering in through the trees that formed the roof of Artanis’s hall when a dark figure appeared in the doorway, backlit by silver. “Feasting without me, lieutenant?” said a voice that sent shivers straight down Findekáno’s spine. Beside him, Sauron seemed to catch on fire, as if he had transmuted all the silver light in an instant into an inner flame. The crimson of his hair made Findekáno’s heart ache in his chest, as did the affection in Sauron’s voice as he rose and went to greet the figure, who could only be Morgoth. “My lord, I thought you did not want to join us for the hunt.”

“I might still have been asked to dinner,” responded the Vala, stepping into the soft candlelit of the hall. In that light, less majestic, he seemed diminished—no longer the fearful force of chaos they had departed Valinor to fight but something more like an Elf himself—a tall Elf, true, with eyes like chips of ice and the air of a king, but no more than that. He put his arms around Sauron with a great deal of affection indeed, and Sauron melted into his arms in a way that made Findekáno stare with more than a little jealousy. Not of either of the two, but of the picture of raven hair mingled with red as they stood sheltered in one another’s arms.

He looked away and tried not to think of fire and ice.

~

The golden light of Laurelin had been beautiful to begin with, but dangling on a hot cliff face for hours as it beat against him was no more pleasant than roasting too close to a fire would have been. Maitimo’s arm ached, too, and his belly protested with hunger. He expected that, at least, would fade quickly, but there was nothing to be done about the drying up of his throat, or painful thirst that quickly arose in it.

At the same time, he almost welcomed the unpleasant physical sensations. The hunger and thirst, the pain in his back and his arm, made a splendid set of distractions from thinking about all the life choices that had led him up to this point. He knew his father had loved him, knew that as he knew that he breathed air, that his stuttering heart was still beating, but he did not know when that love had turned to something else. Should he have turned away? Should he have forborne to speak that dreadful Oath?

He should have acted at Losgar. The harshness of the light and the dryness of his throat now echoed the dreadful flames of the ships, the panic and terror of the loss of the younger Ambarussa, the words of recrimination that had lodged in his throat. 

It was not the pain that brought Maitimo to weep until his body could no longer produce tears.

~

Findekáno and most of the rest remained with Artanis upon her request. The visitors from Angband did not stay the night—all except Thuringwethil, who very pointedly accompanied Artanis to her chamber—but they said their farewells politely enough, departing with—to Findekáno’s surprise—Olórin, Curumo, and Eönwë. He himself slept deeply and well as he had not in a long time, inside a hastily-constructed bower he shared with several of his kinsfolk. Turukáno slept beside him, with Itarillë safe inside his arms.

They had found a haven, it seemed. Artanis and her folk were only too willing to open their arms to them, and there was great joy over the next few days in reuniting with familiar faces and making new friends. But Findekáno was still restless, and he knew precisely why, walking back and forth as he played with the braids in his hair. He thought his brothers and sister knew why as well, but they did not press him.

It was very strange to see members of the Enemy walking free through the forest and not offering any fight, but he grew used to it faster than he might have expected. He had not realized, at first, that many Orcs did not hew to fighting and torment but enjoyed hunting and rough sport—indeed, he discovered that a small group of them had moved permanently to join the Elves in the forest. It was more of a surprise to find that a few Elves had moved to Angband, which was not a place he ever wished to tread near. Still, Thuringwethil was a very constant reminder, and Sauron himself was not such an unlikely guest here, though Morgoth rarely made an appearance. Curumo, Olórin, and Eönwë seemed to somehow spend all their time riding back and forth, tending to old ills, and generally being a great help to everyone.

It could not have been a week, even, that Findekáno did not even startle at the sight of Sauron working thoughtfully at an anvil in the center of one of the clearings, while Artanis sat upon a log with Thuringwethil’s head in her lap and spoke to him in the manner of one ruler to another. 

“There is movement at Ancalima Osto,” Sauron said, and his voice was rough and troubled, the usual sly laughter nearly absent. It was a long moment before Findekáno realized that his voice was trembling, and with some fear.

“What has my uncle done now?” Artanis asked; she did not sound fearful, only angry.

“I do not know, but I do not like it.” The hammer fell once, then again and again. “I hear whispers,” Sauron said, and now the fear was made smoother by quiet anger. “Several of my Orcs were foraging nearby that day. They were set upon by the Noldor and nearly all of them have died. Only two remain, of five who made it back to us. Melkor and Olórin are arguing over how best to heal them, I believe.”

“Have they said anything?”

Sauron shrugged and frowned. “There is little they _can_ say, injured as they are. What I can gather is something about a traitor—although knowing the Silmarils and their touch as I know them, whatever poor soul has been labeled traitor is probably Fëanáro’s most faithful follower.”

An icy chill spread into Findekáno’s stomach at those words. He tried to remind himself that if Maitimo were Fëanáro’s most faithful follower, then he had betrayed all the rest of his own kinsfolk at Losgar. He also tried to remind himself that Sauron could not possibly know; he was only directing his harshest words towards his greatest enemy. It didn’t matter. Findekáno needed to know.

“What happened to him?” he blurted, striding into the clearing. Sauron looked up, both eyebrows raised, from his work. Artanis smiled at him, and Thuringwethil made a soft noise and burrowed into her lover’s lap.

Findekáno expected—he wasn’t sure what he expected. Kindness from Artanis, certainly. From Sauron? Mockery; at best a useful answer.

Sauron’s flame-red eyes flickered to the braids in Findekáno’s hair, and when he spoke, it was almost gentle. “I don’t know for sure. My folk did say something about an Elf hanging from a cliffside. I assume he was alive, left to die, but for all I know he may already be dead as some kind of twisted warning.”

_Hanging from a cliffside_. How long ago? _Already dead_.

It couldn’t be Maitimo. It couldn’t be. But Findekáno was already striding away. Artanis called after him, “Findo! Do you need a horse?”

He paused, pleading. “Your swiftest mount.”

“You shall have it.”

~

Laurelin’s light rose again in the east. Maitimo had lost count of the number of times he had seen it now. It was still beautiful, even though that golden light was worse by far than the silver light of Telperion: burning fire was more painful than numbing cold. He wondered if the same had been true for those left behind at Losgar, but even naked, high in the mountains, he suspected the cold was not so cold as that of the Helcaraxë.

He could not feel his arm anymore, which he thought was probably a blessing. He could feel the rest of his body, and it ached, his back most of all, the heat of his injuries telling him it was likely infected. Not that it mattered: he would die of thirst before he died of infection. Would he meet Findo in the Halls of Mandos? _Eru, let him live_ , he begged. _Let him not have died, frozen on the ice, cursing my name._ After all that he had done, he knew Findekáno’s gaze would never soften on his again, but if only he lived, the pain would not seem quite so heavy, somehow. As if his pain was what was important.

He laughed bitterly, and it sounded like the raucous cry of a bird. The sound echoed down across the little valley, and the echoes seemed almost to speak. Then he realized the last was not an echo but a faint cry, something that did not sound like a bird, but a voice, calling his name over and over again. “Maitimo! _Maitimo_! Can you hear me?”

The voice sounded so distant, so achingly, heartbreakingly familiar, at the same time. Maitimo’s dizzy mind searched for an explanation and found one, but he recoiled from it—he could not be dead, hearing Findekáno’s call, for if he were then his beloved was dead, too, and by his hand. In any case, he was not sure he was capable of responding. Perhaps it was merely the last desperation of a dying mind, searching for any comfort it could conjure up.

But the cry came again, closer this time. From somewhere above him, from the rocky scree where they had stood to lower him down. “ _Eru_ —oh, Maitimo, oh, please answer me—art thou living? _Please_ be alive!” He craned his neck, trying to see upward, and then something was tugging on the chain that bound him, and the numbness in his arm gave way to pain, drawing a soft cry from his throat. “I’m sorry,” panted Findekáno’s voice. “Just let me get thee up. Hold on—hold on—”

Findekáno’s voice. Maitimo cried out again as his body was hoisted and back scraped along the cliff. Then strong arms clutched at his elbow and shoulder, pulling him up and over. He found himself looking up into soft brown eyes, the light of Laurelin shining on the golden ribbon still braided into Findekáno’s hair. It was ragged now, and torn, but it was still _there_ , and Maitimo felt his chest heaving and his shoulders shaking, even though he could not weep.

“Thou _art_ alive,” whispered Findekáno. “What has he done to thee?”

Maitimo raised a trembling hand to touch, his fingers ghosting along warm flesh, following the line of Findekáno’s jaw. He was real. He was _real_ and living and there was love in his eyes, love that Maitimo in no way deserved.

“Only what I deserved,” Maitimo croaked. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should have stopped him somehow. I should have—” He coughed, the pain of speaking too much for his tired throat. 

“I’m getting you to safety.” Findekáno’s jaw had firmed up in that way it always did when he had decided on a course of action. Maitimo knew that it would be no good to argue with that, and he did not have the strength in any case.

“The chain,” he said instead.

“Yes, that is very troublesome,” Findekáno agreed. “It is sunk deep into the rock on one end and I did not bring a smithy with me. Perhaps my sword can cleave it.”

“Your sword would break,” Maitimo told him, because he had already recognized the only way that Findekáno was going to be able to free him, and it would be less fearful if he did not think about it overly hard. 

“Still that is all I can think of to try—” Findekáno looked down as Maitimo feebly spread his chained arm sideways along the rock. “Oh, love. No. There must be another way.”

“There is none.” Maitimo’s teeth chattered. “Don’t argue, Findo. Just do it.”

“Shut your eyes, then, so you don’t wail like a little one,” Findekáno said, but the grim bravado was belied by the tremor in his voice.

“Perhaps you had better shut yours,” Maitimo retorted, with a flicker of humor. Then, as Findekáno seemed to actually consider this, “Do _not_ , I have no mind to lose more than the hand.”

“Just hold still,” Findekáno told him tensely, and Maitimo nodded wearily and turned his face away as Findekáno had suggested.

The pain was less than he had expected, perhaps because the blood had not yet really begun to flow again through the wrist and hand. And Findekáno was quick, as he’d expected. He had barely begun to feel the pain when he was being gathered up, his arm—his wrist—bound tightly, and Findekáno murmuring something soothing into his ear. “And now, I suppose, I must carry you down,” he said. “The next difficulty.”

“I don’t suppose you have a plan for that,” Maitimo said, in a kind of calm despair. He was already wondering what he would do if his father or his father’s men realized he was gone from the cliff and came for them. He could not let Findekáno be hurt, but he was in absolutely no condition to protect him.

“My plan was to ride to the mountain, climb the mountain, get you down, and take you away to safety,” Findekáno told him.

“Yes,” Maitimo agreed, with a quiet sigh. “That does sound like your kind of plan.”

“I won’t drop you,” Findekáno told him, with forced cheerfulness.

“I am not sure you will be able to get us both down, either.”

“Well, have you got a _better_ plan?”

“I…” There had to be one. But Maitimo’s mind was fuzzy and the world kept slipping into shadow around him. He looked up at the hazy face above him, the brilliant light of Laurelin limning each stray curl with golden fire. Had he slept? “You must leave,” he mumbled. “Father cannot find you in my bedroom.”

“Maitimo, no, don’t sleep.” Findo’s voice seemed far away. “Don’t go back into the past. Thou must stay awake—”

And another voice, a voice that seemed to chirrup like a bird’s, “If you have quite finished your lovers’ spat, I have come to fly you back to Artanis.”

The world tilted. The world vanished.

~

Findekáno stalked back and forth across the clearing. He didn’t think he should have been banished from the healing tent. He did not, in fact, see any _reason_ he should be banished and certainly not with a, “We’ll trip over you and it won’t help. Now out.” He couldn’t stand to be out here, waiting in the silvery light of Telperion, _waiting_. What if something went wrong? What if his cousin _needed_ him? He needed to be in there.

“Findo, if you’re going to stomp up and down the entire clearing like that, do you think you could at least do it without muttering to yourself?”

“Go away,” Findekáno told his brother instantly. “I want to be alone.”

“No, you _want_ to be with Maitimo,” Turukáno responded calmly. “He will be all right. Artanis and her healers will see to that.”

“I can’t…” Findekáno choked on the words, because there were so many words, and most of them were meant for Maitimo’s ears alone. He didn’t know how forgiveness had even been a question to him, but if any doubt had remained in his mind, Maitimo’s broken, desperate apologies would have been enough to banish it. He had wanted to die, Findekáno was certain. He had wanted to die, to make up for what he had done, and he was deathly afraid that even now, his cousin’s soul would _make_ that choice, would fly to the Halls of Mandos and leave him behind.

“I know you’re scared.” Turukáno’s voice was low. “I know how you’re feeling. He won’t leave you behind again, Findo.”

Findekáno found he was striding restlessly again, his hands clasped behind his head. “What if he does?” He paused, then thought. “How did you—you _can’t_ have known!”

“Anyone would have known, with the way you rode off to that cursed citadel without even waiting to be certain it was him,” Turukáno told him slowly. “But I’ve known for longer than that.”

“How long?”

“Since Losgar. The way you fingered at your hair and wouldn’t speak his name.”

Findekáno chewed on the inside of his lip, then turned to face his brother. “Yes, all right,” he said shortly. “I’m in love with him. I’m sorry.”

Shrug. “Fëanáro left his own son to die in those ships. I’m not going to judge Maitimo too harshly. I’m not going to hold him responsible for—” his lips thinned, “—my motherless child.” He stood loosely, stretching. “I wouldn’t wish that loss on you in any case. Even if you have truly awful taste in men.”

“It does not trouble you that we are…”

Turukáno shrugged. “I imagine it should, but I have more important things to worry about.” 

His words released a tension in Findekáno he hadn’t known he was feeling. “Thank you,” he said softly.

Before he could say anything more, the healers’ tent flap was pushed open, and Artanis stepped out. “Well, cousin,” she said. “He’s awake and asking for you.”

Findekáno stopped and stared. “He’s all right?”

“He’s very weak, so try not to be your usual self,” she said, with a small but friendly grin. “He’ll recover. The wounds are dressed, and he has been able to keep down a little water. And his fever has broken.”

He stared at her for one more heartbeat—two—and then he rushed for the tent. As he slipped inside, he heard from behind him Artanis addressing Turukáno, “I see your brother has not grown more patient with the passage of these four years.”

Maitimo was sitting propped up in a large, clean bed, his russet hair spilling across his shoulders. His left hand lay on the coverlet, and the bandaged stump of his right beside it. He looked very pale and thin but his eyes brightened immeasurably when he saw Findekáno. “Findo,” he whispered.

Findekáno barely restrained himself from throwing himself into Maitimo’s arms and bawling into his chest. Instead, with what he accounted admirable restraint, he sat on the edge of the bed and took his cousin’s hand tightly in his own. “How are you feeling?”

“Exhausted. In pain.” Findekáno could see the effort he put into smiling, but the smile that resulted was real and true. “Do you know I can still feel the torn nails on my right hand? I call that unfair.”

“That is dreadfully unfair.” Findekáno brushed russet hair gently back over his cousin’s ear. “Maitimo—”

Maitimo flinched—minute but visible. “Could you…” he trailed off and looked to the side.

Findekáno waited. After a moment, he said, “Anything, beloved.”

Maitimo’s face filled with a sudden longing at that, and he reached out to clasp almost desperately at Findekáno’s hand. “How can you forgive me?” he said. “How can you _possibly_ —how do you still wear my ribbon in your hair?”

“Well, I wanted to know what you’d been thinking, true enough,” Findekáno told him. “Of course I was hurt and afraid and lost.” Each word is punctuated by another slight flinch, but this time he did not let himself stop, because it was important that all of this was spoken. “I didn’t know if I would forgive you,” he continued, “But I didn’t know that I wouldn’t, and why would I throw away something so important if I wasn’t certain?”

Maitimo swallowed hard. “I do not deserve your forgiveness,” he said in a low voice.

“None of us are blameless in this,” Findekáno retorted. “Well, perhaps Artanis. You have done worse than some and better than others, and I think you have paid more dearly for your sins than anyone.”

Jerkily, Maitimo shook his head. “Ambarussa the younger—”

“He’s fine.”

His cousin’s eyes flew open in shock. “Impossible! He _burned_ —”

Findekáno shook his head. “I promise. Artanis was there—she smelled the smoke. The two of them escaped together.”

“Oh,” said Maitimo, and his eyes screwed up. “ _Oh_. Oh, Pityo—” he clutched at Findekáno’s shirt front and the next moment had buried his face in the other’s chest and was sobbing.

Findekáno, not knowing what else to do, pulled him close. _He_ had cried like this, before, wailing and sobbing like a child, but he had never seen Maitimo, quiet, brave, dispassionate Maitimo, break down like this. “Nelyo,” he murmured, and other soft, wordless noises of comfort, rubbing his hand in careful circles over Maitimo’s back.

After a little while, the flood ebbed, and Maitimo sat back, sniffing and rubbing his eyes. “I must look a pretty sight,” he managed wanly.

“You are always beautiful to me,” Findekáno told him gallantly, and Maitimo got out a watery laugh.

“Well, I have never been less lovely than I am now, so although I assume you are lying, it is a very timely lie.” Maitimo leaned his head against Findekáno. “I don’t deserve to, but—I love thee,” he said.

“I don’t care whether you deserve to or not, I love you too, and I would be very unhappy if you didn’t love me back,” Findekáno told him, and then, because he had waited for this, through years of ice and cold and misery and doubt, and leaned forward and kissed Maitimo, a little questioningly, on the mouth.

Maitimo groaned, and his hand flew up to rest on the back of Findekáno’s neck as he kissed back desperately. His tongue probed for entrance, and Findekáno shifted forward a little to deepen the kiss even more, sliding his hand through that coarse red hair, tangling in it, drowning in it. He inhaled Maitimo’s scent and was halfway to pulling the other man into his lap when he remember his cousin was still healing, and forced his other hand to go still, stroking up and down Maitimo’s inner thigh.

“Tease,” Maitimo told him hoarsely, pulling back a little. His lips were swollen even from the brief shared moment, and his eyes blown wide and dark. Findekáno wanted to ravish him within an inch of his life—but perhaps he could be patient for once in his life.

“You’re still healing,” he protested indignantly, and Maitimo smiled at him, then ran a gentle finger down the golden ribbon braided in his hair.

“I cannot believe you came for me,” he said. “Riding to the rescue, Findekáno the valiant once again. A little more heroic than getting a cat out of a tree this time, I suppose.”

“I will _always_ come for thee.” Findekáno kissed the fingers of Maitimo’s left hand gently, then paused. “Wait, no, I won’t. Because I’m never letting thee out of my sight again.”

Maitimo chuckled at that. “Then will you help me out of bed now?” he asked.

“You’re healing!” Findekáno protested.

Maitimo cocked a thoughtful eyebrow at him. “I would allow you to carry me, but I don’t think my dignity could survive it, cousin. No, I will be quick, it is only that I would pledge my loyalty to your father, if he will have me.”

“I’ll get him to come here,” Findekáno said firmly; Maitimo pulled a face, but nodded. 

“Perhaps also Findárato and Artanis?” he suggested. “I just…I want everyone to know that I…” he trailed off, a pinched look reappearing on his face. Findekáno held him for a moment more before hurrying out to call on Nolofinwë, Findárato, and Artanis, who fortunately were not too difficult to find, as he wanted to force Maitimo to go back to sleep as soon as he could. Artanis brought two of the healers with her as well.

Maitimo bowed his head and quickly and simply pledged his loyalty to the three of them. Nolofinwë paused for a long moment, but then looked to Findekáno and nodded. Artanis smiled mischievously, and said, “But what shall we do when both of your cousins need you for something?”

With a perfectly motionless face, Maitimo responded without a beat, “Fortunately, my other cousin has already cut me into two pieces for your convenience.”

“ _Maitimo_!” Findárato exclaimed, but Findekáno’s father laughed suddenly.

“Well met,” he said. “Very well met indeed.”

“There is just one other thing,” Maitimo said. Findekáno had felt him tense as Findárato said his name. “I…would like to find a different name,” he continued softly. “I am not…not quite Maitimo Russandol, anymore.” His voice broke very slightly, and Findekáno slipped an arm about him and tightened it. “I am not—” He broke off, and Findekáno knew what he had meant to say, though he did not say it.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Then one of the healers piped up in the Sindarin tongue that Findekáno still had trouble understanding. Artanis translated, “She asks whether you would like to be called by your name in her tongue? It would be ‘Maedhros.’”

“As she and the others who speak that tongue saved my life, I would—I would be honored,” Maedhros said. His hand tightened in Findekáno’s, and he leaned his head against Findekáno’s chest.

The healer spoke again. “She says that now that’s over, you’d all better leave,” Artanis said, with a smile. “Maedhros needs rest.” She and the healer looked at Findekáno, and they must have seen the stubbornness clouding his countenance, because they exchanged a look, sighed, and laughed. “She says you may stay, but only because five minutes with you has had a very positive effect on her patient,” Artanis said. As she gathered herself to leave, she paused to murmur in Findekáno’s ear, “And I am inclined to think that there is no one so good for a person as their lover.”

As they left, Findekáno turned back to Maedhros and gathered him into his arms. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“For what?”

“Not leaving me in the end.”


End file.
